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Christmas morning, every morning
and I'm not even Catholic --
but I know what it is
to wake up to the whole world singing
The way we tend to beToday, I learned
that grief is the highest form of surrender.
I am still learning how to sleep.
but I know the words to every Frank Turner song now,
and I wear them on my shirtsleeves
everywhere I go.
I know that recovery is a long time coming,
but it can't hurt to hope for scar tissue
on more than just skin.
I suppose this is what getting better looks like -
a quiet, fading ache.
reading so many words aloud and wondering
if you are still amenable
to being my friend.
spelling out my own name and
remembering how it feels
to just breathe.
every art page I follow lately
has been telling me
that it's okay to be lonely.
and maybe that works, too.
but recovery has been a long time coming
and I am still terrified of September.
but perhaps there is hope still
for the wayward hurricanes.
perhaps we are all orchards,
still learning how to bloom.
and perhaps the sunlight has been so heavy
if only to teach us
how to bear the weight
don't worry, darling -
this is nothing so empty as
every star is an empty light housethey say saltwater cures anything:
or the sea.
if you were here, you'd say
we were never sick, we were just
maybe all broken things can be made new again,
put back together with a miracle -
or the sea.
maybe all lost things come home,
and all you need to do is hope.
call out in semaphore.
stand on the pier 'til they make anchor.
come back to the empty lighthouse.
name a star after them
and make a wish.
kneel on the wet sand
maybe all it takes is an ocean song.
maybe nobody has tried hard enough.
or the sea.
stories only keep you immortal for so longsomewhere on the other side
of a town shaped like
a midnight cliche,
you are dying:
it has been so many months
since I last mouthed your name.
I have been dead since August, darling,
but on the sandbars of my memory
we are seventeen forever,
drunk on sloppy kisses
and spoken-word poetry,
throwing around our dreams
like they're fists
and humming the theme song to Rocky,
promising paper cranes for every landed punch
and writing love letters
to the bruises of tomorrow.
we reached our meridian
on a Tuesday,
falling gently into ruin
like statues underwater,
held together with nothing
but a silence heavy as a cannonball -
and even the windstorms we weathered
would leave us only shaken,
we were far too comfortable
in the bedrock,
pressed upon each other,
praying to turn into diamonds
in the morning;
we were fossils, you and me,
the negatives in the film,
the ghosts of u